Sick
by CWprodigy
Summary: Cristina is sick and Hahn only makes it worse. 2nd Person POV through Cristina. Rated T for coarse language and mentions of sexual encounters.


**A/N: So I'm sick so that's where inspiration came from. Please review!**

…

You're sick but it feels like you're dying. You can't breathe through your nose for shit and your head is pounding with dull thumps with the occasional sharp stab, which you didn't even think was possible, but apparently is. You're curled up on your couch in a pathetic heap trying your best not to die. You had to turn off the TV a little while ago because the noise was too loud and the minute you turn it off, your phone begins to ring. You want to tell the phone to just shut the fuck up but you groan instead because your throat is too dry and flaky because some runny-nosed brat gave you something.

_The irony_, you think, _a doctor, a surgeon, getting sick._

"What a great fucking laugh," You say as you chuck a used tissue on the coffee table. But it's not funny. It's frustrating. You should've been saving lives, at least performing lab tests, or doing sutures. You did go to medical school. You are damn doctor after all.

But no, all you got to do was drink lukewarm peach tea and watch daytime television on mute. What a joy.

And you can just imagine her face. Her arrogant, annoying face with that smile that makes you want to punch her. It was that knowing smirk, a simple upturning of the lips that made you want to stab her with a very sharp scalpel. But you're thrown out of your murderous musings by the insistent ringing of your IPhone. You want to throw it, thrown it against the wall until it breaks but you don't have the energy. So you take your pillow and suffocate the sound until it finally seems to stop. You want to take more medicine but you're pretty sure you'd over dose and despite all your medical knowledge you really want to have liquor, mid-morning hour be damned.

Because you're Cristina Yang. A true badass, which is why you should have been saving lives in an OR instead of in the pit last week overrun with flu-suffering children. You should have had you arms elbow deep in someone's chest cavity instead of handing out tissues and prescribing children's Tylenol. Last time you checked, you weren't a nurse. So now you are flopped miserably on your couch staring at the dirty ceiling of your apartment and utterly hating the person who put you in the pit and made you contract whatever _disease _you have. Life is so unfair.

…

You don't remember falling asleep but you must have. When you wake up your throat feels like it's choking on cotton balls and you swear you wish you were dead. You feel like your skin is burning under heat lamps but you're teeth are chattering and your pale skin is covered in goose bumps. The two extremes of hot and cold seem to tear your body apart. A cough erupts from your lungs with such force you think your ribs might shatter like glass. The coughing fit ends and your rub your sore chest with cold, trembling fingers. _God_, you _hate her_.

There's a pounding on your door that matches the pounding in your head a few minutes later. Your first thought is to ignore it. You even turn the TV back up, anything to ignore the knocking. It could be anymore, Meredith, Callie, _her. _But she has no reason to come. The pounding continues, steady and loud.

"Go away." Your voice is raspy from dryness and lack of use. You should get more tea but that would mean getting up. You repeat your command but it falls on dead ears. You turn off the TV, repeat yourself. It doesn't stop.

"The door is open!" You yell. You're pretty sure it is. You pretty sure you left it open for Callie last night since she lost her key but she must have spent the night at roller skate girl's house, which is fine. As long as the annoying blonde stays the hell away from you.

The knocking finally stops and the person enters and closes the door behind them in one fluid motion. _Definitely not Meredith_, you think. Meredith is too awkward and loud for such a subtle entrance. You close your eyes and, like a little kid, hope the person won't see you. You're covered in a green afghan that you got at a yard sale because despite popular belief you _do _have a life beyond the four walls of Seattle Grace hospital.

You can almost feel the person looming over you but you keep your eyes shut.

"Feeling better?" Her voice is concerned, but restrained and maybe a bit amused.

"Fine. Go away," You mumble. She chuckles. You remove your face from the afghan and glare.

"What do you want, _Hahn_?" A sick pleasure coils in your gut as that playful smirk dies on her lips. You know she's not used to you calling her Hahn when you're alone with her. Yet, she expects you to be used to her treating you like shit by day and fucking you by night. It isn't a relationship because you don't want it to be one even though you know she does.

You stare at her as she shifts uncomfortably. Your face is oh so neutral. You know you're being cruel but you're as sick as a bitch and it's unintentionally her fault. She deserves it. Silence settles around you and you wonder what she would do if you told her to get out.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay." You snort hand the sound echoes through the room. Her facial expression is nearly comical and you fight the urge to give a satisfied smirk of your own.

"Yeah right," You laugh, "You came to see if I was still fuckable but clearly I'm half dead. And even if I wasn't you'd just fuck me and leave."

"That's not true." Her voice is sharp. You're hurting her feelings, slicing into tender flesh with your words.

"Then why is it, that you only come when Callie isn't around?" Bringing up Callie is low. Her face falls and you think she might leave. But instead she approaches you coming closer and closer. She moves around the coffee table separating you two and she sits on it, brushing off your soiled tissues. You sit up so that you're on the same level. You refuse to appear as weak as you feel.

She takes your face in her cold hands and you want to pull away but damn. Her hands are _so _cold and you're _so _hot and you don't want to lean into her touch but you do. Because you're not used to this. Because before this anytime she'd touched you it had been hard and rough. Bruises blossomed on your body the next day and your body often ached from being slammed into sofas and doors and walls. Her being so gentle with you is almost _frightening._

"You really are a bitch when you're sick huh?" She said it the way someone would give a compliment. It was full a fondness and almost arrogance, but where the arrogance came from you don't know.

"Get out." Now she's kissing you, prying apart your mouth, forcing your tongue to tangle with hers, kissing you. It hurts your chapped lips but she doesn't stop even as a whimper escapes. She bites into your bottom lip until you taste your own blood and you know it's in retaliation of the Callie comment. You want to push her away, tell her to stop but _fuck, _now she's on top of you and the afghan is on the floor and your ribs hurt from coughing and her teeth sink into the skin of your collarbone and you want her to stop but to never stop.

"What's my name?" She whispers it into your neck as she sucks and bites at your flushed skin. You blush, grateful that she can't see and refuse to answer. She bites you so hard you swear you can feel your skin break.

"Erica," You breath like someone just punched you in the stomach. She licks the bite mark and you know it'll be there for at least a week.

She stops and sits next to you as you both gasp in the stale air of your apartment. You feel your lips swelling and they hurt like your head does and your nose is still blocked like a dam and the sound of your combined ragged breathing is loud and only makes it worse. It's painful but so good.

It reminds you of the first time you had fucked. It had been in the bathroom of Joe's. It was drunken and sloppy. Paper towels overflowed from the trash and there was piss in the toilet and on the floor and she had fucked you against the door. You had to remind yourself not to scream as you came because your friends were right on the other side waiting for you to get back so you could all finish playing darts. It was hazy and rushed but she helped you fix your clothes and fingered the forming hickey on your collarbone and left.

"I do it so Callie doesn't get hurt." You have no clue what she's talking about. You still have the memories of her hissing slut into your ear and her hands on your body.

"I didn't mean it." You scoop up the blanket and lay back down. She leans over and brushes her fingertips against your forehead and frowns. She pulls her blonde hair into a ponytail and goes into doctor-mode asking questions about what you ate, when, what medicine were you on, the last time you took it. You tell her there's Nyquil in your room on the dresser and she goes to retrieve it. You fluff your pillow and grab your phone from under it and see that Meredith sent you a text but you honestly don't feel like replying.

It's almost like you're in the twilight zone and this isn't real.

A plastic cup filled with vile green liquid is thrust in front of your mouth before you can blink and you swallow all of it like you're under a trance. Because people in relationships take care of each other when they get sick and this isn't a relationship. You absolutely loathe her existence at the hospital because she seems to love hating you and giving you crap because she can. And she, like you said, loves to hate you. So what the hell are you doing?

And where is she going? She goes to the kitchen with your owl shaped coffee mug and makes more tea. You watch her as she does this, the familiarity she seems to have as she opens correct cupboards, and takes out the flavor of tea you were drinking and places the exact amount of sugar you like. You have no clue how she knows you're personal preferences because all you drink at the hospital is coffee: black. But somehow she does and you find yourself being pleased and scared at the same time.

The mug is warm in your hands and you take a sip and it's heaven as it slides down your throat.

"Thanks." She smiles but it's small and self-conscious and almost vulnerable. But you shake the thought from your head as soon as it comes because despite being a mega-bitch, she is a badass and her acting like anything other than that is unheard of. You cling to the thought that she's a god because if you do then everything almost seems unreal.

"No problem."

You wonder how the intensity you seem to have always explodes in clashing lips and shedding clothes then drains like coming down from a high. You wonder how she knows how much sugar you like in your tea when you've never had a personal conversation. But most of all you wonder why she's waving a hand in front of you face.

You look up at her with an annoyed look and for a moment she looks unsure and for some reason that irritates you.

"Stop that," You hiss. She cocks her head to the side stupidly with a question plastered on her features.

"Stop what?"

"That insecure crap. It's not you, so stop. It's irritating." You probably sound crazy but you could chalk it up to the sickness or the Nyquil. But she doesn't smile instead she looks at you like she just figured something out, but whatever it is it's lost on you.

"Okay." And now she's sitting next to you. Sitting next to you and flicking the TV back on and settling into the couch cushions. It's odd and unheard of for her to be occupying your space so intimately when both of you are still fully clothed. It's like she's crossing a line or breaking some rule in the causal sex encounters handbook. And you want tell her that rules are there for a reason and this is dangerous, hell, sleeping together could screw you both over (no pun intended). But you don't and you can always blame the Nyquil for your silence because it does seem to be kicking in.

Dr. Oz is playing on the TV and the quack is blabbing on and on about the "do's and don'ts of losing weight.

"Whoever gave him a medical degree needs to be shot," You say yourself because she's not even supposed to be here. But she still hears and she laughs. And now she's holding you and you have absolutely no clue how it happened. Honestly you don't. One minute you're ranting about this crackpot doctor appealing to the masses and the next your head is on her shoulder and her arms are around your waist and you're so close that you're breathing the same air and it hurts. But not the good kind of hurt that you associate with your encounters with her because you know when you wake up she'll be gone.

You're rational even in your drugged and sick state and you know that she's probably on her lunch break and she'll have to go back to the hospital soon. You know she'll still treat you like crap then take off your clothes and you know this day, this moment probably won't change anything.

But she's holding you and you're watching daytime television and she smells like something good that you can't identify because your nose is still partially clogged but you know its something good. And this women, this woman who is your boss, who called you a bitch earlier, who makes interns cry is the same woman who made you tea and is holding you in a secure yet gentle hold. And all you can think about is how fucked up all of this actually is but how much you're too tired to give a damn anymore. So you don't. You sit and you allow her to hold you as you fall asleep and you vehemently deny enjoying it.

Because you're sick and sick people should be allowed to lie.

…

**A/N: So yeah, I'm sick and this just popped into my head. You know what they say: Reviews are the best medicine. :) **


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